Damn, Buggery, Fuck! Writers
by Besina
Summary: Writers are mostly unaware of the effects they can have on characters, or what happens when the story is not being told. Sherlock and John show us a bit of this unseen territory. Meta-fic.


It was midday, a weekend, hence John sat in his favorite chair, still clothed in his bathrobe and reading the paper while Sherlock whiled away his time over his microscope in the kitchen.

A pleasant, shared quiet reigned throughout the flat. That is until John quickly and sharply slapped the paper down in his lap and uttered, "Shit," rather loudly.

Sherlock's head snapped up for a moment, taking in his friend. "What?"

"Writer. Can't you feel it?" John was looking upset, and leaned forward to place his head in his hands, trying not to hyperventilate.

Sherlock paused for a moment, eyes cast up and to the side, almost as if listening for an imperceptible noise, then apparently fixing on something, gave a brief nod and got up from the table. "That's good, John, I could barely detect that. You're getting really talented at picking them up."

John groaned. "I don't want to be good at it. I just want them to leave us the hell alone." It was slight, but he could already sense the change in his mental status starting. "Shit! Buggery fuck! Damn it! ... Sherlock?" He quickly looked about the abandoned sitting room and kitchen, "Where the _fuck_ did you go!?"

Sherlock's voice responded from his bedroom, several feet down the hallway. "Just getting out the necessities, John. It's coming whether we like it or not, might as well be prepared. I don't really know what all the fuss is about, frankly."

"Of course you wouldn't."

A moment later, Sherlock popped his head back around the corner, peering into the sitting room, "Sure, it changes us for a bit, but it's not as though they write it as something we don't enjoy … well, okay, there was that _once_, but for the most part, it's a fairly good time, even if it's not something we'd normally do. Our perceptions change, we think differently for a while, but no damage is done, really. We are characters after all, apparently quite successful ones. It's to be expected, really."

"You would say that." John held his head a bit tighter as the requisite nausea washed over him and his head began to spin a bit. He hated this part, possibly more than any other.

Sherlock felt it begin to affect him too. "Nothing for it now, John." He held onto the wall as the room seemed to sway for a moment. The nausea wasn't quite as bad for him, but it was present nonetheless. He felt the subtle shift inside his head. For a few moments he felt himself present both in and outside of himself; this was the most disconcerting, though fascinating part of it for Sherlock. It just made John feel more ill.

Sherlock had prepared for it, quickly tossing John a cool, wet flannel before sinking down and sitting on the floor to stabilize himself. John caught it gratefully, and slouched back in his chair, hand holding the flannel over his eyes and forehead until the worst of it passed. The dual locality was brief, but then came the feeling-like-a-puppet, and complete disorientation before the transition completed itself.

There were usually a few moments in which one would find themselves saying certain things without actually intending to, feeling outwardly controlled and vaguely possessed, before the new reality took hold, the feeling dissipated, and they could breathe easier once again, a seeming normality reasserting control.

Of course that 'normal' was always different from the normal that existed when no writer was within range, though for the duration, this was hardly noticed.

Sherlock swayed a bit in his sitting position, then muttered, "Oh it's one of _these._ _These_ aren't bad, John. And no need for the preparations, either."

Then the puppet-like feeling took hold as they both rose up and made their way to the sofa, John sitting down on one end, Sherlock stretching out with his head in John's lap, while John flicked on the telly, and turned the sound down.

A reassuring look passed between them before both their heads seemed to fill with cobwebs and John shook his head quickly to clear them.

"What was I saying?" he asked, looking down at Sherlock.

"Hardly matters," the detective answered, placing John's hand atop his locks and encouraging him to pet them.

John ran his fingers through the soft locks and sighed, "God, Sherlock, what would I do without you?"

Sherlock lifted his chin toward John, looping his arms back around the doctor's neck and pulling him forward for a brief kiss. "I don't know, but I'm glad we don't have to find out."

Soft murmurs and caresses continued throughout the night as the two continued to spout their affections toward the other; Sherlock in ways much more direct, and some would say unromantic, than John's, but which made John melt inside, nonetheless.

* * *

When they came back to themselves, Sherlock took his time sitting up. He'd kissed John, but then again, that usually happened - usually was the least of what happened. His hair felt pleasantly mussed. None of what they ever did actually disgusted him on recall; it just wasn't the way things normally were.

Sherlock secretly loved the more heartfelt discussions. It was one of the very few times he actually got the chance to express himself to John – just because it was fiction didn't make _some_ of the sentiments any less true, and John never held it against him, because it _had_ been a story, after all, no one was actually acting completely as they should.

They both took a deep breath and proceeded to right themselves, sinking back into their non-writer-filled mindsets. This time hadn't included a chase, arguments, kidnappings, anyone getting hurt or dying tragically. Overall, it had been a sweet, sentimental snippet of their supposed life together. It had been a long time since one of those and it had been rather relaxing, really.

Even John smiled down at his hands which had spent a substantial amount of time carding themselves through Sherlock's soft locks to the deep, rumbling satisfaction of the detective. No, sometimes stories weren't all bad, side effects notwithstanding.


End file.
